“Just in time, Detective,” said Frank, a smarmy man with greasy black hair and bad teeth. He nodded toward Marlowe’s gun. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My hand’s not so steady these days. Even if you get that shot off in time, can’t say this knife don’t still cut her pretty little neck to the bone.”
Katy trembled in his clutches. Her lips quivered, her eyes pleaded in silent terror. Paige cowered against the kitchen cabinets, crying.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m here. You’re going to be fine.” Marlowe trained his gun on Frank and stalked closer.
“Ah, ah. That’s about close enough,” said Frank.
“Mommy,” cried Paige.
“How sweet. Makes me miss my own mom. Oh, wait, never knew the whore,” said Frank.
“Let her go, you bastard.” Marlowe’s heart threatened to pound out of his chest. He fought for calm, and failed.
“Now, now, no need for name calling. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“I killed your low-life brother. Let them go. I’ll put down my gun, and you can do what you want with me.”
“Tempting, but I’m gonna have to say no. See, it’s like I told you. You took my family, I’m gonna take yours. First, Mrs. Detective here, then maybe I’ll have a go at that little one there. No? I know what you’re thinking. You’ll waste me. Yeah, I’m sure you will, but don’t matter. I still win. You get to live a long time with the memories in your head. Ain’t no getting rid of them. Ah, a bonus, you’ll probably have one messed up kid to boot.” Frank raised his voice. “How bout it, sweetie-pie? You’re gonna be dreamin’ about me till you’re all grown up.”
Paige sniveled. “No!”
Marlowe’s gun hand shook. “Goddammit, Brumbeloe, don’t do this.”
“It’s been fun, but I’m getting bored.”
Marlowe yelled, “Noooo!”
Frank Brumbeloe drew the blade across. As soon as he twitched, Marlowe fired, but it was too late. Blood, so much blood. Katy grabbed her neck and fell to her knees as Frank staggered away with an idiot grin. She never even managed to look up at him. Marlowe’s scream echoed through his skull only slightly louder than Frank’s laughter. He fired until his magazine clicked empty, reloaded, and fired into Frank Brumbeloe’s dead body over and over again, deaf to all but Paige’s sobs.
The last time Marlowe was here, he failed. Not again. Maybe if he had taken the shot, Frank’s hand would not have pulled the knife across Katy’s throat. Maybe, she would still be alive.
Maybes and what ifs had haunted his every waking hour since that day. If he had taken the shot, Frank’s knife might still have sliced through her flesh. There was no way of knowing, and the not knowing left Marlowe in his own private hell. What if he had fired, and Frank had still killed her? Would he blame himself for her death anyway?
If he took this shot, a death spasm could blow Becca’s brains out. If he did not, Seraphim might kill her at any time.
Marlowe put his finger on the trigger…and squeezed.
CHAPTER
28
The groundskeeping crew sat at a picnic table outside the hospital eating lunch. Gabriel rarely spoke, but he enjoyed listening to his coworkers’ banter. A colorful lot, the five men ranged in age and race, but everyone got along. A band of brothers, fighting and name calling included.
“Mr. Compton told me our hours should get back to normal in the next week or two,” said Paul. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve tightened my belt so much this last month, thought my innards would come out my nose.”
“Patty Jr.’s got his heart set on playing baseball this year. You know how much uniforms, gloves, cleats, all that jazz costs? I need a different job for each member of my family,” said Patrick, a small man, but stout as a tree trunk. “Stacy starts dance classes soon, too. The twins always need new clothes or something. Little suckers are growing like weeds, the whole lot eating me out of house and home.”
“No one made you have four kids, Pat,” said Marty. Marty considered himself the brains of the operation, which meant he liked to stand back and give orders. His commands usually met with a fair share of profanity and threats.
Pat glanced to the clouds. “God keeps blessing us with children.”
“God blessed me and my wife with birth control.” Clive glanced up from his copy of Reader’s Digest.
“Glad He did too, last thing we want is your genes polluting the pool,” said Paul, chuckling.
“You should know. You been firing blanks for years,” shot back Clive.
Paul crumpled up his empty sandwich wrapper. “Anyhow, things are looking up. Summer gets here, we might even see some overtime.”
“One of these days, I’m going to find a real job,” said Marty.
“Okay, daylight’s burning, let’s get to it,” said Paul. “Clive, you and Marty finish up the yard around East Wing. Pat, you’re with me. Gabriel, what are you working on?”
“I am trimming limbs in the exercise yard in West Wing.”
Paul clapped his hand on the table like a judge’s gavel. “Sounds good. See you guys at punch out.”
Rehabilitation and Physical Therapy occupied the west wing of the hospital. The interior contained patient rooms, a pool, a gymnasium, and separate treatment areas for brain trauma and spinal cord injuries. The facilities were state of the art and the finest in the southeast.
Outside, a spacious yard spanned a horseshoe-shaped area encircled by English boxwoods and azaleas. Therapists brought patients onto the lawn on pleasant days, to give them some exercise. Encouraged to walked certain distances or move against restrictions, patients worked to increase muscle strength and flexibility.
Gabriel had noticed the old woman before, laboring through the workouts designed to give her better mobility. A hip replacement and a mild stroke left her requiring a walker and often a powered wheelchair to get around. She preferred the walker, arguing the wheelchair made her feel lazy.
A talkative sort, the old woman spoke to nurses, other patients, and anyone who listened. Gabriel overheard much of her conversations.
“My Thomas, he died, you know. His heart gave out. Always thought I’d go first. Always hoped I’d go first,” she said to the therapist assisting her.
“You’ll be with us a long time yet,” said the young man, prematurely balding, with thick arms and legs.
“Hush your mouth. I go home to my empty house. Never had any children. We wanted to, but I couldn’t get pregnant. It’s only me now. I’m ready to see my Thomas again.”
“Don’t say that. I’d miss you too much.”
She sighed. “You’re a sweet dear, but I’m so lonely now.”
“You should really consider the home Dr. Mathis recommended. You’d have friends there. You wouldn’t be lonely.”
“No, I’ll die in my own house. No one’s going to put me in some old folks’ home,” said the elderly woman. “I’ll join my Thomas soon.”
Gabriel listened, hearing the sadness in her voice and feeling the blessing. The chosen. He would answer her prayer and bring an end to her loneliness and pain…his gift of mercy.
Two days later, Gabriel watched her from across the street. The old woman moved gingerly behind her stroller, its miniature wheels clicking against the pavement. Fragile hands, covered in paper-thin skin, clutched tight the apparatus’s arms. Tiny, hesitant steps followed each push forward. Even this mundane trip to the mailbox required all her effort.
No mail today. He watched her progress as she labored up the walkway, stepped through the door, and disappeared inside her home. His mind drew back to another time when he watched a sickly woman making the slow, arduous trek toward death.
* * *
“To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. To bed, to bed, to bed…” raved his mother.
“Mother, please. Let me help you,” said Gabriel.
Elisabeth’s mind seemed completely lost to her now—her days spent lying in
bed moaning or reciting verses in a pain-filled voice. Gabriel stood over her, a damp cloth in hand, dabbing the perspiration from her forehead. His arms ached from constantly carrying her to the bathroom, to the bed, or outside to sit for a time under the sun. She could not walk or do even simple things for herself.
He grew weary right along with her. Gabriel loved his mother and would do anything for her. It shamed him when her complaints annoyed him. Akin to a ringing in his hears he could not stop.
Still, her incessant raving unnerved him more. She made little sense. Deciphering what she wanted became a trying ordeal all its own.
“And, most dear actors eat no onions or garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away! Go, away!” Elisabeth said.
“I don’t understand, mother. Are you hungry?”
“Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.” She yelled.
“I’ll bring you some soup,” he said, but when he returned it to her, she knocked it from his hands in frustration.
She ruminated on death much of the time. It demoralized him that he could find no way to comfort her. Hearing her plead for death, in so much misery, he could not bear it.
“I wonder if it hurts to live. And if they have to try. And whether, could they choose between. They would not rather die.”
“Please stop it. Just stop it,” said Gabriel. Emily Dickinson seemed her favored verse when in her poet persona. Surprisingly, she remembered long passages of prose and complete poems, yet seldom recalled his name.
Why must he suffer these dire ravings? He felt his own sanity slipping away with his mother’s.
All his life, Gabriel had learned his speech through his mother’s stanzas and verses. He came to understand the vernacular of her personas. Gabriel had no one to talk to aside from her, so Elisabeth’s poetry and prose colored his language. Her words now morphed into something horrible and nonsensical even he could not understand.
Worse still, worse than her quotes and mad gibberish, were the brief moments of lucidity when she became fully aware of her suffering. When she gazed at him with understanding and complete cognizance of her situation. In those instances, he longed for the madness to return and take her from this prison of flesh.
“Gabriel,” she said, reaching out to him. “You are my angel. My gift from heaven. It’s why I named you Gabriel. Please, my angel, please don’t let me go on like this. You can do it, son. You’re strong. Don’t feel bad. It’s a mercy. Please help me.”
“No, mother do not ask this of me. I am here with you. I’ll care for you. You will be well again soon.”
“You know I will not. I see it in your eyes. A day, a week, soon I will die. Why make me continue this way when there is no hope?”
Each time this Elisabeth spoke, his hands were set on fire. His head pounded, shutting out all sound except the rush of blood into his brain, like a crashing waterfall. His stomach balled tight, squeezing, a vice twisting his insides.
Death shadowed Gabriel. Through the momentous events of his life, Death had held his hand. Thinking back, each occurrence pushing him toward adulthood involved the demise of someone or something he loved. Death guided the chisel, chipping away the excess stone to reveal the statue, already present, yet hidden beneath.
Athena lay in the mud. Her short, fat legs kicked at the air. Eyes, confused, lacked the understanding to puzzle out what was happening to her. Fear and panic in her squeals at a sound from behind—another wild dog come to tear at her flesh. When he stood before her, recognition and yearning filled her eyes. Gabriel answered her pleas. He fulfilled her need and ended her pain.
His father lay in a pool of his own blood, brain matter splattered upon the wall. Serenity and peace written on his face…what remained of it. Gabriel stood over him, unnamed feelings swirling through him.
And now, his mother.
“I can’t. I love you. Do not ask this of me…please.”
“I would do it myself, but I’m not strong enough. You’re my only hope.”
“Let the gods decide. Is it not what you taught me? They will come for you soon. Try to be patient.”
“The gods give us reason. They have granted me the ability to understand my life is no longer worth living. This is not life, Gabriel. I’m already dead. My body simply will not give up. You would not kill me, son…you would set me free.”
Torn, Gabriel walked outside. He prayed to every god whose name he recalled—Jehovah, Zeus, Apollo, Asclepius, Panacea. To hundreds of divine entities he prayed.… He searched the moon and stars for answers and for strength. No burning bush spoke to him, no god disguised as a hermit revealed himself. No one came.
Elisabeth appeared pregnant. The tumor in her belly grown so large it filled her. Pressing outward and inward, it left no room for anything else. Gabriel could not be apart from her, and he could not be with her. Hearing her screams, he rushed to her side, yet once there, his own agony quickly pushed him away.
The day he left, Gabriel heard her moans rise from a delirious sleep. He stood paralyzed, unable to step forward, unable to pace back. Another day, the same day, recurring over and over.
Whether an act of cowardice or acceptance, he retreated from his mother’s bedroom. He packed his clothes into one bag. In another, he took what few tools remained—the bolt gun, the gambrel and hoist used for slaughter, a few others. Perhaps he could sell them, though they were old and probably of no value.
She would die soon. His mother would not suffer much longer. Certainly, she could not hold on. Too frail, too weak, it would end soon.
With a last look back at the farm that had been his home, the only world he knew, Gabriel walked away.
* * *
His mind slowly returned to the present. He gazed down at the old woman, and remembered…everything. He shook his head and focused on the blessing warming him inside—the still, small whisper of the gods.
The chosen. My purpose.
Gabriel moved to her bedside, bolt gun poised and ready. With the tip pressed to her temple, he set his finger on the trigger. She turned her head and gazed up at him. Her eyes showed no fear or alarm. Gabriel fell back a step.
The old woman smiled faintly. “I knew you’d come. I’m ready.”
Surprised, he froze. The blessing blazed through him, yet he could not move.
“I’m ready, my son.”
“It’s a mercy you do for me. I’ll be with my Thomas.”
“It’s a mercy, my love, my angel. I’ll be with your father.”
“You’re an angel. I know it.”
Gabriel retreated another step, then another, soon backpedaling out of the room. He stumbled on the stairs, falling and crashing down the last several steps. His tools scattered, clanging across the floor. Fumbling, groping in the darkness, he shoved his things into the bag and fled into the night.
CHAPTER
29
“Marlowe, don’t!” shouted Becca, straining at her ties. “He’s not the Seraphim. Please don’t shoot.”
Marlowe released pressure on the trigger a hair’s width before the hammer fell. He stared at Becca in disbelief.
Has she lost her mind?
“His name is Max. He’s one of my patients. He has brain cancer. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Marlowe’s eyes darted from Becca to the gun in the other man’s hand. Pretty simple equation for a cop. A shrink might try to talk it out with some nut job. Marlowe himself might have tried it in college with a knife-wielding drunk, but since then he’d learned crazies were like a mean dog, wagging their tails while biting a hand off. A similar dog bit him once, to the bone…not this time.
His arm shook. His focus shifted between the gun sight and the man’s face.
“He thinks Seraphim sent him to die in my place. He thinks Seraphim’s coming back here.” Becca’s voice held no trace of the panic he
r eyes conveyed.
Marlowe trembled. Not again. The room swirled into a morass of sound.
“Marlowe!” yelled Becca.
He flinched as if slapped, blinked, and made eye contact with her.
She raised her hands as much as the restraints allowed, waving him off. “He doesn’t want to kill me. Please don’t shoot him.”
Shit. This is a bad idea.
“I made that mistake once, Becca.” He aimed at the man’s forehead.
“Marlowe…” Her voice seemed strangled halfway between whispering and yelling.
His shoulders slumped as he lowered the gun to a nonthreatening posture.
Max stared in Marlowe’s direction, but did not seem to see him. Glazed eyes flitted about, fixing on nothing.
Marlowe slowly waved a hand in the air. “Max. It’s Max, right? Hey, it’s okay, we’re all fine. I’m going to put my gun down. Right here on this table. See? We’re fine.”
Taking a step away from his gun, Marlowe kept his attention locked on the other man. Max seemed to notice him now, puzzlement spread across his face. He squinted at Marlowe as if trying to make out some far away object.
“You’re not him,” he said.
“I’m Marlowe. I’m a friend of Dr. Drenning’s. I’m going to wait here with you, if you don’t mind.”
Max tilted his head, listening for something. After a moment, Marlowe’s words finally registered. “Okay, but stay over there,” Max said, his voice distant. “He’ll be here soon. Very soon.”
* * *
Max waited. Seraphim would come. He promised. Keeping Dr. Drenning tied up made him feel guilty, but she would run if given the chance. Now this man, this Marlowe. Yes, the boxer, he might try to interfere. Max wished Seraphim would hurry.
Something moved inside his head. Max not only felt it, he saw it…somehow. There behind his eyes—a small stone, like a marble. It floated amongst the fleshy folds of his brain, turning as if on an invisible axis. Spiked protrusions slid from the surface, fanning out into triangle shaped blades. The sphere began to rotate, expanding to the size of a golf ball, now a baseball—spinning faster, the blades sliced through his brain. Excruciating pain laced through his head and pulsated down his body.
A Coin for Charon Page 28